


Years In the Making (Or The Kisses That Count)

by misha_collins_butt



Series: I Knew I Loved You [5]
Category: Supernatural, Wincest - Fandom
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, SPN - Freeform, Weecest, Wincest - Freeform, Winchester Fluff, fluffy fluff, list of kisses, wincest fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:33:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A kiss is not just a kiss between the Winchester boys. Each one symbolises a time and a place, and a feeling and a word. Each one is special in it's own way and these are the ones that count the most.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Years In the Making (Or The Kisses That Count)

The first time, it was by the light of the glowing moon, shining sandy white through the open window of Dean's shadowed bedroom. It was under the cover of a dusty purple night, and the stars were aligned like the blonde freckles scattered across Dean's cheeks and nose and forehead.

And it was chaste.

It was the softest of whispers, just barely there at all.

And they were both partially drunk and being seduced by sleep.

And Sam had stumbled into Dean's bed after the long hours it took to hunt down and kill a werewolf, and he'd slipped under the covers and pulled out a small flask of Jack Daniel's that he'd doubtlessly found laying around in dad's stash somewhere.

So Dean had given him a chastising glare before snatching the bottle and taking a long pull, then handing it back and asking what was wrong, and Sam had taken a similar swig of the bitter liquid and waited a little too long to speak.

His words had been slurred and rambling but so had Dean's. And the older brother had wrapped both arms around a thirteen year old Sam's shoulders and hushed the soft sniffles that mercilessly escaped Sam's mouth and he'd told the younger boy everything would be alright and that the nightmares would stop eventually.

And, to this day, neither know what happened between those words of comfort and the kiss, what happened to get them from the words to the kiss but they still don't care. Didn't care then. Why should they now.

All they know is that somehow, between the words "it's okay, Sammy. I got you. I'm here" and Dean's hand shifting slowly from stroking across Sam's face to tangling in Sam's hair, something was thought or said or implied or picked up on and someone leaned forward and so did the other and their lips locked together in a moment of sick, twisted love that anybody would be disgusted by.

And it was with great care and fervent caution that Dean hid the bottle in the bottom drawer of his nightstand, and then pulled Sam to his chest beneath the covers and drifted off into buzzed sleep.

He hoped Sam didn't freak out when he woke to find himself wrapped a little too tightly in his older brother's arms.

\--

The second time, they were on their way back to the motel room and dad was staring silently out the front window, both hands on the wheel with Zep rocking angrily in the periphery of all their ears.

Sam's head was draped heavily over Dean's lap and Dean's one hand was tangled in the brown nest of hair attached to Sam's head and the evening's sunset leaked in through the back windows like lava dripping slowly from a volcano before it explodes.

Sam's breath was hot and oblivious on the back of Dean's other hand, which hung idly over his inexplicably erected cock, blocking his innocent fourteen year old brother from his sick joy at having the younger boy's head so near.

And Sam's hand, despite the fact he was supposed to be sleeping, reached up and pulled Dean's wrist down, making the older boy rest his hand, instead, on Sam's chest as the small hunter curled up and turned on his side to hide the fact that he was nuzzling closer into the hardened appendage.

And Dean's breath caught in his throat and his fingers tightened in Sam's hair and he licked his lips before pressing them together to keep himself from gasping at Sam's own lips pressing into the heat of his pounding appendage.

Dean checked to make sure their father was paying no attention and hunched over and craned his neck as much as he could and Sam met him halfway, their lips sliding together in the quickest of kisses.

And then Dean was straightened back up in his seat, suppressing little sighs by chomping down on his lower lip as Sam continued to nose at his dick through the confines of his jeans.

Their father remained clueless despite Dean coughing loudly to cover up his moan as he came in his pants not two minutes later.

\--

The third time was desperate, clutching hands and pulling shirts and scraping nails and biting lips and breathing into eachother and fingers in hair and heads being pulled so close they could've morphed together into one being.

It was drenched in the early morning light of mid-August pouring through the window of their latest dingy motel room that Sam's eyes fluttered open and realised dad must have snuck off on another hunt.

He glanced down to see Dean's twenty year old arm slung across his waist and he sifted through the sheets, rippling the stuffy air that the ceiling fan wasn't already blowing around, to find Dean's face with his sleep-heavy hands.

Dean's eyes whipped open, probably expecting danger, but focused in on nothing more than his brother's soft and tired face and his brother's wistful hazel eyes and his brother's mischievous lips lifted into a small smile.

And what a wonder; Dean leaned forward and caught the young man's lips with his own in a lazy, sun soaked kiss - one that lasted far longer than either of the others they'd had.

It was sweet and careful like tapping a drop of vanilla into cookie batter. And it was slow, like a seashell making its way to shore, wave by wave, under the calmest of ocean conditions.

But then something clicked, inside whom, neither knows. Maybe both of them. But they do know that the kiss turned desperate and sloppy and urgent.

And Sam inhaled sharply and dug his stubby nails into Dean's hair and balled his other hand in the collar of Dean's shirt and rolled over so he was on top of the older man, hips to hips, thighs straddling Dean's waist.

And then Sam gasped, a precious little escaped breath of air that puffed through his lips and scampered over Dean's neck, when their erections pressed together, hard and greedy.

"I want you," Sam whispered, his lips brushing Dean's ear and his words making Dean blush a shade of red that Sam had never seen on anybody before, that Sam wished Dean would dress his flesh in more often.

But Dean nodded, nevertheless, and tugged at the hem of Sam's shirt and pushed it up over the young man's head. And then he sat up with Sam in his lap and reached behind his head and pulled his own shirt off.

Sam rolled his hips into Dean's which elicited a slow moan, a long inhale. His lips found Dean's again, and then his jaw and then his neck and then his collarbone and then his chest and then-

"But not now," Dean breathed and his hands skimmed up Sam's hips, his waist, his ribs. "Not yet."

And Sam nodded and kissed Dean once more and wrapped his arms around the older man's shoulders and nuzzled his nose into the crook of Dean's neck.

And they sat there for hours, Sam's head buried in bend of Dean's shoulder and his thighs bracing his brother's as he sat up in Dean's lap, and Dean's hand brushing though the mess of Sam's hair and his other arm folded around Sam's waist and his lips whispering nonsense and happiness into Sam's ear.

They only left the bed that day to take seperate showers and stroll to the gas station at the corner of the block for lunch. Then they got back to the comfort and privacy of the motel room, flipped on the telly and curled up in eachother's arms for the next hours, falling into a lilting sleep brought on by the droning voices of the programme babbling in the background.

They scrambled back to their own sides of the bed when they heard the Impala's engine purring as their father pulled up into the parking lot at one in the morning, and they pretended to be asleep, one brother on each edge of the bed, when the man carefully opened the door and softly clicked it shut.

They didn't talk about what was happening between them.

\--

The fourth time, it was after Sam had told them he was going off to college and dad had stormed out - probably to find a liquor store - and Dean had said nothing to defend Sam.

He scolded himself, told himself he should've fuckin' said something, told himself defending Sam would've been worth a punch to the face or two.

He wanted to make it up to him, wanted to let him know he's worth something and he's wanted and he's not a terrible son.

So Dean waited until he heard the car Uncle Bobby loaned to dad for occasions specifically such as this pull out of the parking lot, pushed up out of his chair at the table in the corner of the room, and strode across the carpet to Sam who sat on the edge of their bed, his face ashen and his head hanging from his neck.

"Sammy--"

"Shut up."

 _What_?

"What?" Dean laughed. That couldn't be what Sam just said. Dean's sure Sam is a little pissed but...

"You said nothing. That entire time. Dean, he _verbally disowned me_ , and you," Sam lifted his head, his jaw set and his eyes hard and accusing, and spit the words like venom, and Dean flinched, "said. _Nothing_. At all."

"Sam, I didn't know what to say--"

"No, you were just fuckin' scared to get punched in the face, you jerk!" Sam stood and started toward the door, and Dean could practically see the steam rising from Sam's cheeks as he briefly wondered where, exactly, Sam planned to go, and pondered he fact that he wouldn't take the Impala. Never had when it came to running away.

But dean's hand shot out and held tight to Sam's wrist and Sam struggled, yelling at him to ' _let go, just fucking let me go_ ' and Dean's chin wobbled before he spoke.

"I'm not lettin' you go anywhere Sammy... not yet. Not before I can talk to you about this, not before I can do somethin'..."

"Like _what_?!" Sam's face was polarised, split and battling between defeated and dauntless, and his cheeks were stained with tears and his mouth was stained with chagrin.

And all Dean could do in response to this was let out a sob of his own, one that sounded strangled and pent up, one that ripped through his body like a fist through a piece of wet paper.

And Sam immediately softened and let out a pitying sigh of a breath and back-stepped and crouched in front of Dean and took the older man's chin between his fingers and thumb and gazed up into those downtrodden green eyes, the ones that, to this very day, carry so much hurt and hope and pain and joy and guilt and accusation and recklessness and care. And he shook his head and shot up and attached their lips and Dean cried and Sam sighed and they just kissed.

They kissed for a long time, a lingering kiss that was meant to say many things; _I'm sorry, I love you, don't cry, I'm still yours...goodbye_.

That last one Dean didn't realise until the next morning when he woke and the spot in bed beside him was empty and cold and John was in the chair at the table in the corner of the room, with his head hanging uselessly in his hands and tears soaking his lips and his sleeves.

He still blames that old man who dared call himself a father.

\--

The fifth time was whiskey soaked and stumbling, not more than three weeks after Jessica died and Sam was in their motel room and all Dean did was go to the local grocers to get pie and beer and a gross, plastic-boxed salad for Sam. He was only gone for the better part of half an hour and when he got back to the room, Sam was curled up at the foot of his bed, babbling and sobbing and groaning about being a piece of shit boyfriend, about ' _God, I could've saved her_ ', about ' _why didn't I do something I should've fucking done something_'.

And Dean dropped the food by the door and rushed to Sam's side and sighed and shook his head and said something about ' _you got yourself in deep this time, didn't cha, Sammy_ ' and ' _come on, let's get you in a shower_ '.

And he used deft hands to cajole Sam to a sitting position, and then, when the younger man refused to stand, denied all Dean's benevolent, ginger words and all his prodding, Dean pursed his lips and grabbed him by the shirt collar and dragged him up to a standing position.

Sam complained and whined but once he was standing, leaning against Dean, his glazed eyes seemed to focus in on Dean's alert ones and he hiccuped and leaned forward and their lips caught eachother in a slow, sad kiss.

And Dean pulled away first because his brother tasted like cheap Jack and saline, with the undertones of strawberry gum and a toothy grin. And he didn't want this to go further than it had to because Sam was drunk and God only knew what was going through the man's head...or what was rushing to his dick.

Dean sighed again, rested his forehead against Sam's and whispered illogical apologies and unrealistic reassurances and ' _I'm so sorry she's dead Sam but ya can't keep doin' this to yourself_ ' and ' _I'm here, and you're okay, you're okay, we're okay, we're gonna be okay, I got you and we got eachother and I'm so sorry but you got me and you'll be okay_ '.

And they stood there for a good ten minutes, wrapped in eachother's arms and breathing and bleeding and crying into eachother and feathering lips against skin. And they would have stood there for longer but Sam was starting to complain about wanting to sleep and so Dean stripped him down and led him to the shower and placed him promptly under the spray of hot water and turned to leave.

And Sam's hand found Dean's and his fingers begged him to stay, no words needed.

So he did. He got out of his own clothes and swiped a thumb over Sam's cheek which now harboured a mix of tears and shower water, and slipped his one hand around Sam's waist and held the other against Sam's cheek and tilted their foreheads together again.

And Sam's trembling hands found Dean's face and held the older man's own blushing cheeks. And they stood there beneath the screaming spray of water and let it wash away the swell of guilt and blame in their hearts, let it build up a new fire, let the new, clean pot bubble over with forgiveness and affection and let themselves get lost in eachother's eyes for a while.

Let the tears and hurt and anguish be replaced by a love so deep and irrevocable and unequivocal that it was only able to be shared between the two of them; it was - still is - so strong and proud and solid that it imploded and crumpled in on itself the second it came into being, unrequited by the world around it.

But shared, nonetheless, by the two dumbasses it was created for.

\--

The sixth time, Dean's lips were bloody and lifeless, his eyes listless and vapid, his skin sallow and his last wan smile engraved in his teeth like words on a head stone.

It was the moment after Lillith disappeared - after trying to kill Sam, of course - and no one was there to comfort Sam. No one was there to tell him he'd be okay, he'd be okay, everything was gonna be okay.

No one to reassure him that Dean wasn't actually dead. No, no, he couldn't be, he couldn't be dead, because...because he was Dean and just-he couldn't. He just couldn't because Sam needed him, and Sam loved him and God, no, what the hell have you done, Dean, what have you done?

And Sam sobbed over Dean's limp form and shook his head and had the strangest, most asinine thought that'd ever come to be, and he leaned down and kissed Dean.

But it didn't work and he was still dead and so he did it again and again, and then one more time, and God, no he was still dead, and why wasn't it working. It should be working because usually when Sam kissed Dean, he woke up. He woke up because he wasn't actually dead. He couldn't be dead.

And Sam kissed him again, kissed his parted lips, his slack jaw, his hooded eyelids, each bloodied freckle scattered across his cheeks. Kissed his forehead and his nose and his ear, and then whispered to him, whispered nonsensical, ambling words that he knew would do nothing but he said them anyway, ' _I love you I love you please. Please, you can't be dead please come back to me please. I'm so sorry, don't leave, come back, God fucking please Dean Jesus Christ you can't be dead, please please_'.

And he buried his face in Dean's neck, the man's skin already cold and clammy. He buried it there and sobbed because there was no pulse, no heart beat, and he was supposed to be able to feel that pulse, he was supposed to be able to hear that heart beat, and now they weren't there. They were just...they were just gone.

And he thought that was the last time he'd ever get to kiss his brother, the love of his life, the one constant, the one person that kept him going, that kept him alive, that kept him from drinking himself into a coma. The one person who knew him, who truly knew whom he was, who made him feel like he was understood and like he had even a sliver of hope in this fucking shithole of a world.

And then he let go.

\--

Now they sit in the bunker library and Dean still can't seem to look at Sam the same way, hasn't been able to since the demon blood.

"Stop giving me that look," Sam mumbles, flipping a paper up to peek the one under it, then comparing the two and huffing over something they say.

"What--"

" _Don't_! Even try," he sets down the stack of papers and looks up at his brother with exhausted eyes. "Dean, you've been looking at me like that for years now. Okay? So don't...play dumb. 'Cause I'm done."

A silence creeps up on them, wraps its long arms around their necks and squeezes. Hard.

"I'm sorry," his voice is quiet, nearly lost to the oblivion of silence that's stopped both their hearts, and Sam thinks he must have misheard. But then Dean speaks again. "I'm sorry Sammy. I should've...I shouldn't have made this a huge deal. I shouldn't have called you freak, and I shouldn't have mistrusted you all these years and--"

But Dean doesn't get to finish. Doesn't deserve to.

Because as he was talking, Sam stood, fists clenched and ready to break skin, but instead he strode over, and as Dean got to the end of that damn apology, Sam took the older man's face in his hands. And now he's sitting on top of Dean, his legs bent and straddling Dean's thighs and Dean's face nestled comfortably in the warmth of Sam's palms.

"Didn't I tell you once to shut up?"

"Yeah. A lot of times, Sammy. What are you doin'."

Sam doesn't answer.

He shakes his head and relishes those sweet fucking golden-moss-turquoise-green eyes and smiles such a small smile he's not sure Dean even noticed but he doesn't care, doesn't care, doesn't care.

Because he's hunching his back, giant moose-man that he is, and craning his neck and his lips are against Dean's again, for the first time in years, and he can't handle the crackle of hope sparking up inside of him. Because Dean isn't struggling, isn't pushing him away, isn't whining or yelling or hitting him. Dean is kissing him back, melting into him, digging his nails into Sam's shirt and twisting his fingers in Sam's hair.

And their lips are sliding together in the gentlest, most skittish kiss, shy and friendly, terrified and wanting.

And then it deepens - without exchanging a word, Sam grabs Dean's shirt collar and crushes their lips further together, pulling Dean into him, pulling their bodies flush together, and pushing his tongue into Dean's mouth and a little noise escapes Dean's throat. A little noise resembling a moan and Sam kind of smiles into the kiss and lets his tongue explore Dean's own, rediscovering the warmth of his brother, the curl of his brother's muscle, the bumps of his perfectly fuckin' white teeth.

He pulls away, though, before it can go any farther that some desperate kissing and few little moans.

It can't, not yet.

Because, because, because.

Sam just got Dean back. And he can't ruin it. Can't ruin it. Not just yet. Maybe a week or a month or a year or a decade from now.

But not yet.

They're both breathing hard, chests heaving against the other's, clammy foreheads tilted together.

"Haven't kissed like that in years," Sam mutters, his arms hanging from Dean's shoulders tightening and shifting, then pulling in and folding around Dean's neck. "Haven't kissed at all in at least two."

"I take this as an 'I forgive you'...?" Dean whispers sheepishly, his eyebrows pulling in and up and his swollen lips parting at the silence that follows.

"Dean, I never...aha...it's not like I've been holding a grudge this whole time. I forgave you a while ago. Like...the first time you said sorry after yelling at me for the..." Sam's voice is quiet already, and becomes even more quiet as he trails off, unable to finish that, knowing Dean understands he means to say Demon blood.

And Sam is sure there's a pang in Dean's heart and as soon as he realises what he's said, he wants to take it back. Wants to swallow the words and never let them see the light of day again. But he can't. Because they're already out in the open, hanging from the high ceiling, far enough out of reach of anyone, even Sam Winchester, that he won't even attempt to pull them back down.

Not even if it means apologising for saying something to remind Dean about his apparent inability to forgive Sam--

"I'm trying. I've been trying. And I think I do forgive you, Sammy. I think I always have forgiven you; I-I think I just..." Dean replies suddenly, cutting off Sam's thoughts and, goddamnit, the sincerity in Dean's voice makes Sam feel all the guiltier for ever doing what he did in the first place. "I think I just can't let myself accept that I've forgiven you. I...I don't know, Sam. I don't know how else to say it."

"I don't care how you say it, Dean. I just...I just wanna be yours again; I just want us to be okay," Sam furrows his eyebrows and kisses Dean again, soft and chaste, just like that first time. Just like he wants it to be again. "Please."

Dean offers a wan smile and kisses Sam too, on the corner of Sam's lips, gentle, strong, reassuring, loving.

"I know," he breathes, kissing Sam again and, damnit, he can't seem to keep his lips off his brother. Not like Sam minds. "I know, baby."

Sam grins at the pet name.

"You know I love you, right?" Sam says, his lips brushing Dean's nose. "I love you so much, you fucking jerk."

"I love you, too, bitch."

"Asshole," Sam laughs, pushing his lips out and kissing the tip of Dean's nose.

"Shithead," Dean teases back.

And then more silence.

A comfortable one.

One they haven't had in a long time.

And they spend the next hours like this, permeated by shy little kisses and love drunk smiles and a new understanding and an ancient affection for eachother.

And not a care in the goddamn world.


End file.
